


Comfort and Lies

by chappysmom



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: And a doctor, Gen, Hope, John is a caring person, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-02
Updated: 2012-07-02
Packaged: 2017-11-09 01:46:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/449893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chappysmom/pseuds/chappysmom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of Sherlock’s jump, John isn’t the only one who misses him. He’s a doctor, after all, and can’t help but notice when someone isn’t taking care of himself, and that’s not what Sherlock would have wanted, is it? So he does what he can to offer comfort … not knowing that Mycroft is keeping a secret. </p><p>But that’s all right. John is also.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Comfort

The first time John saw Mycroft after, well … _after_ … was a week later at Harry’s. 

John had left Baker Street, at least for a while. The space was too empty, too quiet, too absent without the tornadic vortex of energy that was Sherlock Holmes. After that first, numb night, it simply wasn’t bearable. So John was at his sister’s, spending as much time as possible asleep on her couch, trying not to remember the last time he had done this. That had been immediately on his return from Afghanistan, aching from a still-healing bullet wound and the loss of his health, his career, his friends—everything that had defined him. 

In many ways, it was almost a comfort to be here again. It was as if staring at the upholstered flowers on the back of her couch was his definition of limbo. Or hell. 

He opened his eyes, facing the chintz roses and wondering if it was worth the effort to get up to rummage for tea in the kitchen. He knew he needed to eat, but had so little appetite it actually shifted to the negative range of the scale, so that the very thought of food made him feel nauseated. But, tea. A cup of tea might just be possible. He wondered if this was how Sherlock had … but no. He couldn’t think about him. He would think about tea. He’d even add milk and sugar this time, to make it more nourishing. Then he could put off thinking about food for a while longer. 

Decision made, he rolled over and started to sit up, then almost fell off the couch when a voice said, “You weren’t at the funeral, John.”

“Bloody…” He caught at the sofa cushions at the sudden dizziness. “Mycroft. What are you doing here?”

“I might ask you the same thing.” His smooth, cool voice was as emotionless as ever. “You weren’t at the funeral.”

John took a quick sip of breath, just enough to whisper, “I couldn’t.”

“One might think that you’re doubting him after all.”

John’s head came up, and for an instant he felt the flash of temper wash over his face, hot after to the numbness of the week. “Never! Not even possible. I just couldn’t face … I couldn’t ….” He struggled out from under the knitted afghan, getting his feet on the floor. “Do you want some tea?”

Without even waiting for an answer, he limped toward the kitchen and filled the kettle. He switched off the water and heaved a hard breath, then another. He turned to set the kettle, then started to reach for the mugs when he felt Mycroft’s presence at the doorway. Had he ever seen Mycroft drink out of a mug?

He looked over at the man, trying not to think about their last conversation. He still believed everything he’d said that night about Mycroft essentially handing Sherlock’s entire life over to Moriarty, yet … everything had changed. It had been a betrayal, yes, but … the difference between the media storm he’d expected to weather and the nightmare of actually losing Sherlock was like comparing a cut from a kitchen knife that needs a few stitches and being torn in two by a scimitar. 

Mycroft had lost as much as he had. John knew better than anyone how devoted he had been to his brother’s safety. He was sure that in his twisted, Mycroftian way, he had thought telling those stories to Moriarty would keep Sherlock safe. He couldn’t have dreamed that Sherlock would jump any more than John had.

So, considering, he reached for Harry’s teapot and dug out the loose tea from the back of the cupboard. He focused on the act of making tea. He warmed the pot and then measured the tea. He pulled out Harry’s fine china and placed it on a tray. He poured milk into the creamer, scooped sugar. He even rummaged for tea biscuits to add to the tray.

Through all this, Mycroft said not a word. He just stood and watched as John went through the motions, politely ignoring the tremor in his hand as he lifted the kettle. As soon as the water was poured, though, he stepped forward and lifted the tray. John didn’t even protest. He didn’t think Harry would want hot tea spilled all over her sitting room.

Moments later, he and Mycroft were seated, sipping tea and nibbling on biscuits as if this were the most normal thing in the world, and all John could think of was how absurd it all was. He coughed out a single bark of a laugh, and at Mycroft’s enquiring look said, “Just picturing Sherlock’s face, if he could see us.”

A brief ghost of a smile, but then Mycroft’s lips tightened as he continued to watch John. Used to being on the receiving end of a Holmesian stare, John just let it wash over him as he sipped his tea. In return, he studied his guest. He might not have the deductive powers of a Holmes, but he was a doctor and had a keen eye in his own expertise.

There were lines around Mycroft’s eyes that hadn’t been there a week ago, and his skin was a shade lighter than usual, and it had a hint of that translucent, papery look of the very old or very ill. He’d lost weight, too. (“ _How’s the diet?_ ” John’s memory whispered.)

All in all, he imagined that he and Mycroft looked equally terrible. Oh, Mycroft hid it better. He was fully dressed, for one thing, and clearly hadn’t spent the last six days on a couch. So, fine, the grooming was better, but the man underneath the suit? He was grieving, just like John, though he didn’t think Mycroft could be grieving _more_. Sherlock might have been the man’s brother, but he hadn’t been a daily part of his life like he had been for John.

“How are you doing, Mycroft?” he asked, surprising them both.

“As well as might be expected, John,” the man said, taking another genteel sip of his tea. “But I’m here to check on you.”

“Of course you are. Always selflessly thinking of others, even in your own personal grief. Does being the British Government make that easier, Mycroft?”

A crystalline clink as he placed his cup in its saucer. “I have obligations, John, that must be met. Obligations that require me to do my job. That does not necessarily make any of this … easy.”

John detected a slight flinch, and softened. “I suppose that’s one of the advantages to having been mostly unemployed since I left the army. I don’t have to go _anywhere_ … anymore.” 

A few more minutes as they both sipped their tea, then John asked, “Are you eating? Getting enough sleep?” Mycroft just raised an eyebrow. “I am a doctor, Mycroft. You hide it well, but you’re not taking care of yourself.”

“Neither are you, _doctor_. Perhaps you should be thinking more of your own health than mine.”

“Professional hazard,” John said. “You know what they say about doctors being lousy patients. But I can see that you are not well.”

Another small, tight smile. “We make quite the pair, then.”

John gave another huff of a laugh. Then he tilted his head to the side, considering. “He wouldn’t have wanted either of us to starve ourselves, you know—no matter how he teased you about your diet.”

“You seem very concerned with my health all of a sudden, John.”

“I’m a doctor, remember? It’s not something I can just turn off.”

“Perhaps,” Mycroft said, “but it’s not what I expected after our last meeting.”

John wiped his hand over his face. “You may not have noticed, Mycroft, but things have changed since then. You’re the only other person who misses him as much as I do.” He looked up to gauge his words, to see if Mycroft seemed insulted at the comparison, but the other man just nodded. 

Another silence, then Mycroft set his cup back on the tray and stood, brushing nonexistent crumbs from his trousers. “Take care of yourself, John.”

John nodded and tried not to look as wan as he felt, surrounded by blankets on Harry’s couch. “You too, Mycroft.”

He didn’t move when the other man left, but after a time, he decided that it couldn’t hurt to take a shower, could it? It might forestall Harry’s nagging when she returned from work. He lifted the tray to carry back to the kitchen and managed three steps before his leg gave out, sending him and tray to the floor in a flood of smashed porcelain and cold tea.

 

#

 

Two weeks later, John surprised Mycroft by appearing at the Diogenes Club.

“John? Is something wrong?” Mycroft glanced around the room as if expecting ninja assassins to come out of the woodwork. Nothing less than an emergency could have brought John here, so soon after their last meeting. Not with the memory of that last, heated conversation still trapped in the draperies. What had his security team missed?

But John just shook his head calmly. “Nothing’s wrong, Mycroft. Or, nothing new, anyway,” he added with a small shrug. “I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

“Me?” Mycroft couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so flat-footed.

“Yes, you. You didn’t look well last time. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Really, it had been years since Mycroft had felt quite so dumbfounded. He sat down across from John and tried not to stare at the man. He looked better than he had two weeks ago—but then, he’d have to. There was no lightness to his expression, no spark in his eyes, but he had showered and shaved that morning and was dressed with his usual care. (Which was to say, with attention to a basic sense of military neatness but more along the lines of casual comfort than Mycroft thought was quite respectable in a grown man.) 

John looked like a man who was grieving, but was finding his way.

“I thought it would be me asking you that, doctor.” 

A strong exhale, not quite a snort, and John said, “Why should I be any worse off than you, Mycroft? He was your brother.”

“Yes, but you know better than anyone that our relationship was … not ideal.”

John shook his head, eyes soft. “Maybe not, but it doesn’t change the essential facts. I, for one, normally can barely spend an hour in my sister’s company, but I would be devastated if something happened to her. You were more involved with Sherlock’s life than I am with Harry’s. And I know what Harry’s death would do to me.”

Mycroft considered this, lips pursed. “And Sherlock’s death? What has that done to you?”

A harsh laugh. “We both know the answer to that one, Mycroft. I thought you were the brother who understood sentiment?”

Mycroft found himself fascinated. “I never said that, John. In fact, I’ve always considered caring a disadvantage.”

“And yet you went to extraordinary lengths to take care of your brother. You can’t fool me, Mycroft. I know you two didn’t get on, but that doesn’t mean you didn’t care.”

“Perhaps, but caring was never a Holmes family strong point.”

“It wasn’t big in the Watson family, either, Mycroft.”

“And yet you are a compassionate man.”

John just sighed. “Which brings us back to why I’m here. I was concerned about you, Mycroft.” He said this very patiently, as if he were dealing with someone particularly dense. Mycroft knew the feeling, though he was very much unused to being the dense individual in the equation. 

“That is your sole reason for coming?”

John’s face grew slightly pained as he blinked slowly, as if he wished to shut his eyes. “Yes, Mycroft. Yes, I came to check on you because, yes, you recently suffered a bereavement and, yes, I was worried about you.”

A long beat of a pause, then, Mycroft said, “Thank you for inquiring. I am doing quite well, all things considered.”

John just looked at him, gaze level. “You’ve lost more weight, and you’re not getting enough sleep.”

Mycroft huffed a laugh. “I never get enough sleep, John.”

“No, but you’re getting less than usual, less than you need.”

This was getting ridiculous. “I might say the same about you,” Mycroft told him, and was surprised to see a gleam of amusement in the other man’s eyes.

“Exactly.”

Silence fell between them as Mycroft considered. He knew John was grieving for his brother far beyond what one might expect from a man whose best friend had just died, especially considering he’d been a soldier and presumably lost many friends during his service. Yet, even in his grief, he’d summoned up the energy to come here to see him—not to confront him or throw (justified) accusations his way, but out of _concern_.

Yet again, he marveled at this unassuming man his brother had found. It wasn’t uncommon, of course, for friends and family to lend each other emotional support at time of loss, but he and John were neither. Not only that, they had last parted on greatly unfriendly terms.

The fact that John had come to him … not to seek help with the rent, or for practical questions such as what to do with Sherlock’s things … but solely out of a desire to check on Mycroft’s well-being?

Mycroft was unused to feeling speechless.

Were this any other man, he would suspect an ulterior motive. Were John not so obviously burdened by his own levy of grief, he might suspect one anyway. But no. John Watson was sincere.

Mycroft could not remember the last time anyone other than his doctor asked after his health as anything other than a polite nicety. 

He could not remember the last time anyone cared.

And so he stared at this mystery his brother had left him. Dr. John Watson. Was it just that he, Mycroft, was his one remaining link to Sherlock? That was possible. Yet, wouldn’t he then be talking about Sherlock? Seeking common ground in their shared experiences with his difficult brother? 

“You feel that we share a common loss and can … bond? … over it?” he asked gently.

For a moment, he actually saw a smile on John’s face. “God, no. Could you see that happening?” He rubbed one finger into his temple. “Let me try again. You are Sherlock’s brother, and Sherlock was my best friend. As little as the two of you liked each other, and drove each other mad, and avoided spending any time together—you were still brothers. Since Sherlock was as close to family as I’ve got these days—barring Harry—that makes me concerned about you by default, Mycroft. We’re in the same boat.”

Mycroft recognized the expression of fond exasperation on the man’s face. He’d seen him direct it toward Sherlock countless times. “So, you feel obliged to check up on me for Sherlock’s sake?” 

That couldn’t be right, could it? 

But John was nodding. “If that’s the explanation you understand, it’s close enough. Same reason you checked up on me. No matter how he felt about spending time with you, Sherlock wouldn’t want you to leave this world any sooner than you have to—any more than you wanted him.…” His voice caught and suddenly his eyes were haunted again. Mycroft just nodded. There was no need to finish the sentence.

“Have you had lunch, John?” At the shake of his head, Mycroft pressed a button next to his chair. “Luncheon for two, would you? Whatever today’s special is,” he told the staff member who came to the door. 

After the man had left, he got up and walked to the sidebar and poured scotch into two glasses. He handed one to John and raised the other. “To Sherlock,” he said.

And with gleaming eyes, John matched him. “To Sherlock.”

 

#


	2. Lies

They didn’t meet regularly after that, but John and Mycroft fell into a routine of seeing each other every few weeks. They didn’t actually talk much, but they both found a certain ease in knowing the other man missed Sherlock Holmes as much as he did. It wasn’t exactly comforting, any more than survivors of Nazi internment camps find comfort in their shared experiences. Yet, having someone else who _knew_ was a relief—even if the two of them had nothing else in common.

Except … John didn’t know that Mycroft had a secret.

Mycroft hadn’t known right away, that Sherlock had survived. The two brothers had worked together on their plan to bring Moriarty down. The stories Mycroft had told the criminal had been told with Sherlock’s blessing. They had both known the character assassination was under way—though the Richard Brook twist had come as an unwelcome surprise, as had the snipers set to take out John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. Sherlock had been forced into jumping and Mycroft had not known.

He hadn’t known until he received a text message in the wee hours of that very (very) long day. Mycroft had agreed to keep the secret and had agreed to help keep the others safe—especially John.

It had made John’s extraordinary gesture of basic humanity that much harder to bear. So far as John knew, the circles under Mycroft’s eyes were there from lack of sleep due to grief—not because he was using every power he had to track down Moriarty’s ring to help Sherlock. The weight loss was because he was so busy he couldn’t find the time to stop for regular meals. 

It was true that he missed his brother, but Mycroft was overwhelmed by work, not grief.

He still found John’s company a surprising comfort, though. Even better, John’s concern over the health of (he thought) a grieving brother had given the man some purpose. He had spent the last eighteen months of his life looking after the well-being of one Holmes; now he was just transferring some of that. Not that Mycroft could ever replace his brother in John’s life, nor would he dream of trying. It was simply that he knew John was the type of man who needed someone to care for, and in the absence of patients, a family, or—god help him, Sherlock Holmes—checking up on Mycroft’s sleeping habits at least made him feel connected to … something.

As lies went, it was one of the easiest ones to manage in this whole mess until Sherlock could come home.

 

#

 

What Mycroft didn’t realize was that John was not a fool. He might not be an ultra-observant consulting detective with Holmes DNA, but he had picked up a few things in the year and a half he’d lived with Sherlock. And as a doctor, he observed a lot more than people thought. 

Just like Sherlock ranted about how ordinary people saw but did not observe, John couldn’t believe the signs people missed. The skin color of a diabetic, or the way a cancer patient’s skin grew slightly translucent. There were signs of medical problems right there, every day, and nobody outside the medical profession ever noticed. Finger nail color, the shade of white in a person’s eyes, skin texture, weight, breathing … to an observant doctor, walking the streets was like one vast free clinic.

Accordingly, he noticed that, yes, Mycroft was losing weight and not getting enough sleep. But he also could tell that the cause was not grief. He couldn’t even enumerate the exact signs to himself (he was no Sherlock Holmes), but … he _knew_. 

Somehow, some way, Mycroft was not mourning for Sherlock.

Oh, John had never expected to see the man prostrate with grief, or curled in a weeping ball in a corner somewhere. Mycroft was a politician and a master at presenting exactly what he wanted people to see. Even his pique with Sherlock was often only visible to one who knew him well. But still … John could tell that, whatever was worrying Mycroft, it wasn’t grief. There was too fine an edge of that very specific Sherlock-related frustration he’d seen so many times when Sherlock would refuse the simplest of requests. Siblings had buttons for aggravation to press that nobody else in the world could find, and there was only one person who could be pushing Mycroft’s—and they were being pushed now.

He didn’t know what, exactly, was going on behind Mycroft’s office doors, and wouldn’t dream of prying. (Well, not since he was sure he wouldn’t learn anything. Nobody could keep secrets like Mycroft.) 

But what John did know that there _was_ a secret.

And whatever it was, it gave him hope.

That alone was worth seeking out Mycroft’s company—the mere possibility that Mycroft was working so hard--not because he had lost Sherlock--but because he was trying to save him. 

If that was true, it was well worth John’s time to encourage him to sleep and eat properly. He knew Mycroft thought he was the one who needed help (and he didn’t deny that missing Sherlock was a crushing weight of emptiness every single day). But still … if Mycroft was secretly helping Sherlock, John would secretly help Mycroft.

And if, at some future date, the secret that couldn't be hinted at no longer needed to be kept a secret? 

That was worth telling any lie for.

 

#

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I own nothing other than my own little bit of plot. I just love the BBC Sherlock universe and like to play there.


End file.
